


Déjà vu

by Kristal



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Historical References, M/M, Reincarnation, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 02:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21500455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristal/pseuds/Kristal
Summary: ‘I will see you again, Magic, but beware: you can look for me again, but you shall not find me. When time will come, the bridge will find you. And with it, me.’Through the years, an immortal Merlin waits for Arthur and Gwaine to be reborn again and again.
Relationships: Gwaine/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Gwaine/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 152





	Déjà vu

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic that was published on my Tumblr in honor of my friend's birthday in 2013. I polished it a bit, but other than that there are no major rewrites, so the story is posted as-is. Maybe one day I will revamp the whole thing and rewrite it, but until that time comes, I hope you can enjoy it in this form.

**PART ONE**

Waiting was never easy. Truth to be told, he had always been the patient kind, but that didn’t mean that the wait wasn’t eating him up from the inside. The thing about waiting is that it’s always a present thought in your mind. It was something subtle, that would sit on your stomach, giving you an unpleasant feeling, like when you eat too much and then you can’t seem to digest your food, or when you get the so-called _butterflies_ (a saying he’d learnt a few decades ago) upon seeing the person you love. 

But that’s the point, he thought; he didn’t know _when_ he was going to see the person he loved, so how was it fair that he had to feel the butterflies _all the time_? And why butterflies, anyway? He had always thought frogs were more fitting to this kind of sensation, for he was feeling like one was jumping up and down inside him right now, making him almost sick.

With the permanent frog in – on? – his stomach and a sigh, he went to the door. The handle was scratched and the wooden door displayed a huge black mark on the front due to a fire incident a couple of decades back, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t like this was actually his house. Not his home, at least. He grabbed the keys, his left hand slightly shaking, and stepped outside in the cold night air.

To anyone who would be watching out of the window right now, the street would have seemed deserted but for a curved old man with a white long beard and white long hair, slowly making his way to the park, a brown sort of messenger bag hanging low on his right side. What would an old man be doing out at this sort of time, - almost midnight, - that was a mystery. Probably the casual watcher would dismiss it as a sign of madness. All old people are mad, right? Well, he might be madder.

***

Neighbours were used to seeing him doing weird things. There was that time when he brought home an entire branch of thyme and locked himself in his apartment for days without going out even once to do the groceries. His next-door neighbour, Mr. Fuller, who was always looking for gossip like it was his oxygen, was both worried and excited at the thought that the old man might be dead. Of course, if he was, in fact, no longer in this world, he _had_ to know first. Hence, he would show up on his doorstep every day, paste his left ear on the wooden surface (his right ear was not that good anymore, god bless), and try to listen for any kind of noise coming from the inside. He would also bend his neck every and each way from his kitchen window to look inside the master bedroom, but all he got was only neck-pain and a severe headache. Still, Mr. Fuller succeeded one night, when he decided to just ring the doorbell and found himself facing the man, his beard tangled, sweat on his forehead, wearing some sort of tunic or something, the scent of herbs escaping his house to fill the entire hall.

“Pardon me, young man (he called everyone ‘young man’ or 'young girl’ no matter their age), I didn’t mean to bother… whatever it is that you _are_ doing”, he had said, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on inside. “It’s just that we haven’t seen you in days and we were deeply worried there might be something wrong,” he had concluded, curiosity torturing every fiber of his body.

He had looked at him under his furry eyebrows, his blue eyes, both warm and icy, piercing him where he stood, then gracefully reassured him that everything was fine and thanking him for his concern, before going back inside and locking the door with two turns of the keys.

Mr. Fuller was almost obsessed by him. Used to know everything about everybody, he couldn’t stand the fact that this man was going to be his Moby Dick. He found it outrageous that an aura of mystery surrounded him that he couldn’t unveil. “ _An honest man would never be this reserved,_ ” he would say to anyone who would listen. “ _Even his name must be fake. Have you ever known of anyone called Emrys Merlin?_ ”

**PART TWO**

Despite having been called many names, the old man was, in fact, named Emrys Merlin. Actually, he was just called Merlin of Ealdor, but Emrys was his real name - his druid name, anyway. There was a time when the word Emrys would echo in every druid’s minds as one of the greatest sorcerers to ever live. The stuff of legend. And, like every legend, people stopped believing in him after a while.

Merlin would think wistfully of those times when he thought the prophecies true himself, that he was destined to create a new world of peace and freedom, a world symbolically named Albion, the White Land. And the prophecies might still be true, but he would never know, for he was only part of the equation, the Magic component of the Albion legend, a legend that lacked its Courage and Strength to be whole. 

‘ _There are two more things you require, Emrys, to continue your journey. For Magic is lost, without Courage and Strength beside it._ ’ Those were the words Grettir, the keeper of the bridge, had told him once. And Merlin was still a young man back then, with merely thirty-four winters resting on his shoulders, and his patience wearing thin, for once. 

‘ _Then I will never complete my journey, and Albion will never rise, because Arthur and Gwaine are dead, and I have no more courage or strength of my own, anymore,_ ’ he had yelled to the dwarf in exasperation, while he had laughed and walked away to other side of the bridge. 

‘ _I will see you again, Magic, but beware: you can look for me again, but you shall not find me. When time will come, the bridge will find you. And with it, me._ ’

***

And Merlin had seen him again, in the early years of the '600. He sensed a big change was coming, and he noticed that it was also effecting himself. He was gradually losing the wrinkled skin and the white hair, and gaining strength and energies again. His hands had stopped shaking, his back was not curved any more, his legs didn’t hurt, and his beard was streaked with black. In two years time, the old man had vanished, leaving in his place the young man he once was.

Confused, but also pleased by this sudden re-youthification, as we may call it, Merlin spent another five years looking for answers in every book he could get his hands on. But no book ever written by man or druid seemed to know what was happening. 

The answer came to him in the form of the keeper of the bridge in 1610. Merlin had been living in France for almost three years now. He had found himself a nice little place near the Forest of Fontainebleau, and avoided the royal court like the plague. Granted, that wasn’t easy, seeing how the royal palace was in Fontainebleau too, and the young Louis was soon to be King Louis the XIII of his name. But Merlin loved to live there, so near the woods, the only place where he could really feel like home. He used to go out at any time of the day or night to look for herbs and plants for his potions and enchantments. Sometimes he would just sit on an old fallen tree, or lie on it, and listen to the sounds of the wood while watching the sky change colours. 

And it was one of those times, while he was walking peacefully in the _Forêt de Fontainebleau_ , picking up a flower or a blade of grass, that Grettir appeared to him, standing on a bridge that wasn’t there until a second ago. Merlin had dropped everything in a state of pure surprise at the sight of the dwarf standing there, his indelible grin stuck to his face like he remembered it.

“You look good, Emrys,” were his first words to him.

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He cleared his throat and finally managed to let out a whisper. “Is it time?”

Grettir raised his eyebrows. “It’s time that you and I have the talk.”

**PART THREE**

“The talk?” Merlin had repeated. “I am way past my hundredth birthday. I don’t need to have _that_ talk.”

Grettir had let out an amused laugh. “As fun that conversation would be, this is not what I wanted to talk to you about, high warlock.”

“Then, what? You said I would see you again when it was time for Albion to come. I see you now, so… what does that mean?”

“It means, Emrys, that Magic is about to find its companions.”

“Arthur…”

“Or Gwaine.”

Merlin had frozen. “What do you mean, ‘or Gwaine’?”

“I mean, Emrys, this is what I needed to talk to you about.” The dwarf had sat on the ground, and gestured to the boy to do the same. “You see, prophecies are timeless. You never know _when_ they’re going to happen. And, being also vague, you don’t even know _how_ they’re going to manifest themselves. It took me years to find more about it, and this is what I know: time will come in all these years you wander on this Earth when Strength or Courage will be needed. When that happens, you will be able to gain your youth again, and you will see one of your friends alive again. It might be Arthur or it might be Gwaine. Never together, for that is the time when the great prophecy is coming true and Albion will live. And when that will be, we won’t know until it’s here.”

Sitting on the ground, Merlin had looked down at his hands. “When will I meet them— one of them? And who is it?”

“That,” Grettir had said, seriously, “is the hard part. You see, whenever your friend will be reborn, they will never remember who they were. They will be born in a new family, with new identities, maybe even new faces. It’s your job, Emrys, to find them, and guide them, so that they can do what destiny needs them to do at the given time.”

“But— who they are, h—how will I know?”

“Trust me. You will.”

With those words, the dwarf had stood up, and grinned again. “Good luck, _young_ warlock.”

“Wait!” the boy yelled, raising his head. But where the bridge was once standing, he saw nothing but an empty glade.

***

It had taken Merlin almost seven years to find him, but, when he had, he had instantly forgotten every dark hour he spent all alone, every second lost wandering in the streets, or with his nose in books of several different languages, every leap his heart had made whenever he thought he had seen a familiar face in the crowd, heard a familiar voice in the noise. He was different, but it was him, he was sure of it. He had short hair, of a dark brown colour, with eyes to match, and an attitude that would accompany his every move. He couldn’t have been anyone else but Gwaine.

He was a thirty-something years old French man of British origins, or so he had said, and was capable of speaking five different languages, and that was not counting ‘burping the alphabet’ as one. He was named Gauvain Quiéret after one of his ancestors, a French writer that had lived a couple of centuries earlier. He had a sparkly laugh and a light in his eyes that never seemed to wear off. He had taken a liking to Merlin from their very first encounter, in a tavern in France (and where else would he ever hope to meet Gwaine, really?), where the man had approached him and had offered him another drink because of ‘ _ces yeux-là si bleus que la mer aussi serait jalouse_ ,’ which is French for ‘ _the worst pick-up line in the history of the world_.’ Still, Merlin hadn’t believed his luck, and had nodded, too shocked to try to speak, or to even think.

**PART FOUR**

Since that night, Merlin had tried to be around Gauvain as long as he could, and he could tell the man wasn’t sorry about it. For the first two months, he was shocked at how flirty he was. He knew Gwaine had always been the flirty type, but nothing ever happened that made him think there would be something more to his words than meet the eyes. 

But this Gwaine was different: bolder maybe, but not really. He was the kind of man who knows what he wants and takes it. The kind of man who is second to no one, in life, battle, and love. He dreamed big, and dreamed hard. He was a born optimist, just like he remembered he would be, and Merlin was drawn to him, like they were two magnets that belonged together. Never in his wildest dreams he would have thought that there would be a time when he and Gwaine would be together, and now, suddenly, it was happening. It was happening _to him_.

They were careful, because their relationship was seen as wrong and against nature in their society. Still, Merlin couldn’t say Gauvain was trying _that_ hard to hide his affection for him. He would do things like calling him ‘ _mon amour_ ’ o ‘ _chéri_ ’ in public, or sit too close to him in the tavern. He didn’t care, or maybe he didn’t realise, how dangerous it was, while Merlin lived the whole year they spent together fearing an imminent threat that would rip their life apart.

1618 was the year when his fears manifested. Religious wars spread thorough the whole European continent, starting a long period of conflicts of which he couldn’t foresee the end. Something had happened in Prague, the emperor killed, and revolutions burst; the whole of France trembled, waiting to see what would happen.

***

Thinking back to those years, all that Merlin could remember was the chaos and the insecurity that he was feeling. He remembered the good too, sure. Living with Gauvain in the house by the forest; having him teach him how to speak Spanish, even though Merlin actually knew more languages than his partners knew of, anyway; he also remembered telling him about his magic, how nervous he had been, and how quickly Gauvain had made it all go away with a laugh. ‘ _I might have known you were special, Merlàn_ ’, he had said in his beautiful French accent. ‘ _I never knew how much, though_.’

When he searched his memories, that was all he wanted to think about. He didn’t want to think about how the years had passed, and France decided to enter the war; about how Gauvain had been the first in line, wanting to prove his honour for his country, and how he went off to war with little training and lots of heart; about how he came back to him in one piece several years later, only to see him falling prey of the plague.

He knew then, and he knew now, that Gwaine wasn’t supposed to stay with him, that he was just a mortal, waiting for the day to be back again for good, to help Albion come to life; but knowing one thing is different from _knowing_ it. Because you always try to cast away that thought that everything could change tomorrow, because you want it to be real just one day more, one month more, one year more… He had lost Gwaine once before, but this time it was only worst because he _really_ had lost him. And that second time, he used to think, that was the hardest one of all.

**PART FIVE**

He found himself young again, in Italy, in 1989.

Grettir had not come this time, no matter how hard Merlin would look. He didn’t know who would come to him this time, if Gwaine again, or maybe Arthur. He couldn’t dare hope for either one of them to be the one, because he missed them both with all his heart, and he wanted to just find them, wherever they were.

He saw him again in 1914, in Milan. He was blond, very tall, and with big brown eyes. Even though he had been really happy to see him, Merlin had felt a bit of pain in knowing that he wouldn’t be seeing Arthur even this time. But Gwaine, or Galvano, as he was called this time, was apparently what the world needed right now.

He was a bit different from the usual Gwaine - the optimistic, flirty Gwaine he knew. He was twenty-one, basically a boy, - even though Merlin himself didn’t look a day older than twenty-four himself, - but with an experienced look in his eyes. He seemed colder, somehow, more distant than ever.

He didn’t buy him a drink, this time; didn’t try to flirt with him, calling him ‘ _blue eyes_ ’ or even ‘ _friend_ ’. Merlin didn’t know what to do with Galvano, and didn’t know how to get close to him. He had discovered pretty soon, with great disappointment, that Galvano had a girlfriend, Ginny. He actually liked her, to be honest. She was fierce and tall, with black hair and honey eyes. She looked like a strong girl, emotionally and physically wise. She was also smart and interested in politics. ‘ _No wonder Galvano likes her,_ ’ Merlin had thought.

***

He had spent merely seven months with this Gwaine before it came.

May 1914 was the start of a new world of biblical proportions. Something that never happened before occurred, and every country in the world found itself facing a great danger, as the First World War, as it would be called later, took its victims.

Italy was relatively safe for the first year, but Merlin knew history was going to repeat itself, and that Galvano would gladly be part of the army, should his country decide to enter the war. That moment hadn’t waited too long to manifest.

In 1915, Italy was in the middle of the preparations to enter the war. Galvano had talked about victory and fighting for the last few months now. He had never been much of a leader man, but he seemed to fit the role this time. Somehow, behind those blond hair and the Percival-like body he couldn’t really see his Gwaine. It was like he was one person and more at the same time. The friend, the lover, and the stranger. Before he knew it, Galvano went to war, and never came back.

***

He had waited till the war was over, then decided to take off and travel the world. The people he had known during those last years were either dead or gone someplace else. He thought about Galvano, and how he wasted his opportunity with him, this time. But, somehow, he didn’t feel the right Gwaine. Somehow, he felt like he would see him again.

***

It was 1937. The world wasn’t a safe place to live any more, but you did what you could to survive. Merlin would keep moving, looking for Arthur, looking for Gwaine, looking for Grettir. Looking for something.

He was staying in a nice little house in Vizcaya, Spain. There were talk of revolution all around, and he knew this was the right place for him to be.

***

He met her on the 20th February 1937. She was just as he’d remembered her. Her fierceness hadn’t left her eyes as she laid her glance upon him.

“Merlino!” she said, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Ginny?” he inquired.

She chuckled. “Oh, no one calls me by that name any more.”

“I didn’t know you were here. I thought you stayed in Italy with you family.”

“My family moved here. I actually disguised myself as a boy and went to war.” That explained the scar she had on her cheek.

“Were you there— Sorry, I shouldn't…”

“I was. He died in my arms, shot by his best friend, Mo. He was a traitor and a spy”, she turned away.

“Ginny…”

“Just— call me Gawaine, please. No one calls me Ginny any more, I told you.”

“Gawaine.” Merlin whispered softly. “That’s a beautiful name.”

**PART SIX**

The old man reached the woods in the park. The last memory of the black haired girl was still in front of his eyes. He didn’t have that much time with her, but he made it count. And he kept thinking that maybe he _had_ met Arthur in Galvano, but he would never know.

He looked around, almost expecting a bridge to form in front of his eyes, but nothing happened. But it was a special day, this one, and he knew. He spent years and years studying and researching, and it had come to this: tonight stars would align with planets, and the Arcturus star would shine brighter than ever. He knew he could do it. The Arcturus star was the star of Arturo, Arthur’s star. Thanks to its light, he would bring the king to life again, and be reunited with him once more.

He hadn’t seen him in a long time, he was almost forgetting the way he looked when he was happy, or tired, or mad. He would never forget his eyes, though. Blue, like his, but deeper. Arthur’s eyes were ‘ _so blue that even the sea would be jealous_ ,’ to put it as once Gauvain had said. God knew how much he needed to drown in that sea, right now.

***

The ritual wasn’t complicated. It was long, though. He had to prepare for it in advance. Actually, twenty years in advance. There were ingredients that had to be preserved for years before they could be used, others that needed to be gathered at certain specific times, others that he couldn’t get his hands on right away. But the actual ritual, well, that was a matter of minutes. All he had to do was wait for the midnight, when the Arcturus star would shine the most, and then started chanting while pouring his potion in the lake there in the park, the ghosts of what were once Camelot’s ancient forest and its greatest lake.

“We meet again, high warlock,” said a familiar voice.

Merlin turned around. “You don’t look a day older, Keeper.”

“And you have grown considerably older since I last saw you.” Grettir looked at him. “It’s not going to work, what you want to do. You can’t force Albion’s time to come.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes,” he grinned, “here I am.”

Merlin pulled out an old book from his bag. “This was Gaius’,” he whispered, petting it. “I know it by heart. Take it.” He held it out to the Keeper.

Grettir narrowed his eyes. “Why would you give it to me?”

“You and I both know why,” Merlin said gravely. “I am an old man. Wiser than I ever was. I know, Keeper, what lies beyond your bridge.”

Grettir laughed. “Well done, Emrys. He will love to know it came from you,” he said taking the book.

“Will I see you again?”

“One day. When it’s time.”

“It’s always about time for you.”

“Oh, yes. And isn’t it about time now?”

Merlin watched as the warlock and the bridge disappeared.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he whispered as the image was fading in front of his eyes.

*** 

The water was warm. He thought it would be cold, but it wasn’t. Or maybe it was the fact that he felt like he was _born_ in the water, born _from_ the water, and couldn’t bear to leave it. But he would have to, sooner or later. Well, sooner than later, if he didn’t want to die from not having any oxygen, he supposed.

Slowly, he swam towards the light of the moon visible on the surface. It seemed like a very long journey, but he knew it couldn’t have been more than 30 seconds. He rose from the lake catching a deep breath. He felt his hair on his eyes, dripping and making him blind.

Half swimming, half walking, he reached the lakeside. Upon seeing the black haired guy waiting on the grass, he said “Merlin, my boots will need polishing. I’ve got mud on them.”

“Polish them yourself, dollophead,” the other said with tears in his eyes.

“Just do your hocus pocus, you useless warlock.”

Merlin stepped towards Arthur.

“Oi! No hugging!” the king yelled.

“Wha—”

“Who’s the dollophead now, dollophead?”, Arthur said before hugging him tight.

**PART SEVEN**

Mr. Fuller’s morning routine was very important. Every day he would wake at 6:30. As his mother used to say, ‘ _the early bird catches the worm_ ,’ and, in his case the worm was a new gossip. After getting out of bed, he would have breakfast on the terrace; that was an important part of his routine, because from there he could see anyone who would leave the building, maybe catch a walk of shame or two, if he was really lucky; he would wait till 7:15 to go shower and then dress himself; at 8:00 he would leave the apartment to go to the park, ready to blabber about what he had seen that morning to his usual listeners.

But today something different happened, as Mr. Fuller’s internal clock decided it was time to wake him up earlier than usual. It was the 6th of September 2013, and this was the first day he could remember when he had woken up at 5:16 in the morning, just as the light was just starting to invade his bedroom. Half-asleep and cursing, the old man blinked. Like everything else in his body, his eyes were old and tired, and he could barely see without his glasses on. Yet, this morning, he could feel reinvigorated, and he noticed with delight and a hint of concern that he could actually see much better than usual.

Slightly limping, he walked to the kitchen. He used to have coffee every morning, but today he felt like apple juice, and softly cursed again because he didn’t have a single drop of it in the house. Resigned, he decided to drink coffee anyway. After making a nice cup of it, he went outside to his usual spot on the terrace. The sun was just about to rise, and it was a pleasant view. He took a sip of the coffee and instantly regretted it. With a frowned expression, he asked himself what he was drinking. What was that black thing in his cup anyway? It had a revolting stink and an awful taste. He poured the content in the vase beside him, watching impatiently the plant as if it would die any second now, but nothing happened. Well, apparently that poison didn’t kill you, but only your taste buds.

He stood up quickly, wanting to desperately drink some water or do something, anything, to mask the flavour, when something caught his eyes.

Walking in the distance, there were two young men. He couldn’t say why, but, from the way they walked, they seemed really familiar. He squinted his eyes. The sun was blocking his view, shining in his face, but he thought he had seen a fair haired boy walking beside a black haired one. It was like something clicked inside him. Like a memory he had stored away for so long that he didn’t even know he still had it. A memory of blue eyes and different lives. Dropping the cup to the ground, he dashed inside.

***

“Hey, blue eyes!” a voice called.

Merlin felt something tickle at the back of his head, teasing a part of his brain that he thought wasn’t there any more. He glanced ahead, looking for the source of the sound. The tickle became a realisation, and the realisation became happiness. Standing on the threshold of Mr. Fuller’s door, in what he was confident were the old man’s clothes, there was Gwaine, his long hair away from his face to uncover his sparkling brown eyes.

“Gwaine— how?”

“It’s Gavin Fuller now. Apparently,” he said with a smile.

“Say, Merlin,” Arthur inquired, “didn’t you tell me he wouldn’t bug us this time?”

“I am sorry to disappoint your highness,” Gwaine said with a bow.

With a large smile, Arthur went in for a hug. Merlin smiled as well, as he waited for his turn to hug Gwaine.

“Who invited the royal prat, anyway?” he whispered to him as he had the warlock in his embrace, loud enough so that Arthur could hear.

Watching them argue like the old times, Merlin felt happiness lift him. ‘ _Now everything’s okay_ ,’ he thought while the new day was finally born. ‘ _Everything is going to be fine_.’


End file.
